Author: xmegantron

To those who have seen me acting completely irrationally or have watched me suffer from severe anxiety:

Do you think that I don’t know that I’m too intelligent to be worrying about things that are this small, or this insanely unreasonable?

Believe me, I know I am too smart to worry, to panic… to let my unruly emotions get the best of me. It actually makes me feel worse; it makes me worry more, about my own sanity, knowing that I’m too intelligent for this. The whole time that I’m chasing, attempting to catch, my shortness of breath, I know you’re probably judging me. I am judging me, too.

But the way I feel– it takes over and trumps my ability to reason. More specifically, I maintain my ability to reason and I can still know, logically, that what I’m freaking out about does not make any sense to you, because it barely makes sense to me. But I lose the ability for that to outweigh the terror of my feelings. I’m falling into a hole with no foot holes, no rope. It’s dark down here. I will never be able to see the light again, probably, and I will never be able to climb out of this depth. Nothing will ever make me feel happy, or better, or like myself again. That’s how I feel; that’s the frightening plunge my heart is taking, and there’s no way I can talk – or think – myself out of it.

And moreover, there’s no way you can talk me out of it, either. Telling me to calm down, like it’s that easy, is the stupidest thing you can say at that point. Don’t you wish I could? Don’t you think I would if I could?

But I can’t. It’s taking over my every nerve, and I know there’s a secret word or phrase, “open sesame!” or something that might make me feel better. But for every phrase that works, there’s a phrase that makes it worse; wording I can pull apart and tear to shreds.

It’s really best to not say anything at all. Being there for me (and not worrying about me, or judging me, or liking me less), really does help.

And I guess to those who weren’t there (and worried about me, and judged me, and liked me less), and who thought that my severe anxiety makes me more difficult, you’re right. It does.

But to those who know that I’m worth it, because I feel the world that much more intensely: thank you. Because you’re right. And it has taken me a long time to realize it, but although I am difficult, I am worth it too.

Back in the days of my late teens and early twenties, I thought I had a lot of shit figured out. And now that I think back on it, I really did have a lot of things that I was (in the process of) successfully learning to do: how to pay bills, how to do my own taxes, how to make productive lists and how to have friends outside of an environment in which we had scheduled break times and locker numbers.

What I was learning the most about, however, were those estrogen-fueled emotions that I was constantly ridiculed for.

I tried too hard; I cared too much; I was too available. I was the worst. I had to play it cool. I had to play the game! But I still had to be interested… or did I have to be interesting? Or both, maybe I was supposed to be both? I forget. But I had to be a lot of things, and it was a kind of “hey, you don’t have to play, but it’s like the lottery; if you don’t play, you can’t win.”

And when I got all caught up… just when I thought I was winning!… I was dubbed the crazy girl. Because I thought the game was over! I had seen the finish line! It was time to drop the “I don’t care” facade and totally be myself, and actually text you when I wanted to talk, and ask you to hang out if I was free, and invite you to do stuff with me. Right? Right?!

Well, it was odd, at that point. Because suddenly, I was just way too into it. This was college and that meant I was not allowed to be serious about anything. I couldn’t care about anything. Oh, and the best part was: when I cared, and suddenly you decided that we were just “hanging out”, you weren’t the asshole one… I was the crazy one.

And this didn’t make any sense to me!

So I would say that. “This makes no sense.” I would send super long texts to the guy who disappeared without a trace, or to the guy who ignored me to maintain some kind of control over the situation… and I wouldn’t get a response.

And I was still the crazy one!

How was that right? How was that fair? I wanted an answer! Give me some peace of mind! Tell me you were lying, or tell me you don’t give a fuck, but tell me something!

And of course, these moments are the ones which are provided as examples when proving the craziness of a girl. Nothing is ever noted about the Houdini act pulled by the immature college manchild who suddenly decided he wanted a buffet at the cheap Chinese restaurant by that gas station in the back alley rather than a pretty appealing, and refreshingly flavorful steak at the Texas Roadhouse by the highway.

So to those assholes who called me “crazy”, shake your heads all you want and say this letter is just further proof. But note that I never cared about you; I cared about me. I cared about how well I was at playing and winning this stupid game that I finally realized was unwinnable. You either lose the game by caring too much, too visibly… or you win the game by being a person that is probably galaxies away from your own, juicy, Texas Roadhouse-like self. I just wanted to be liked; I wanted the bragging rights from winning the game.

So to conclude, I did end up winning… by losing… or something like that. And it wasn’t until long after college that I realized that while I was learning to balance check books and budget groceries out of a paycheck that needed to go to massive amounts of student loan debt, I was also learning something else: to not ignore my feelings, because they matter.

Also, y’all suck, and I appreciate you dropping off as quickly as you did, and telling your bitch friends I was nuts, because I didn’t want to deal with them either.

It’s been some time since I last decided to pick up my fingers and start typing again, but when the world has so many jackasses on the daily, every minute… well, let’s just say that I couldn’t stay away. This blog will serve as a means for me to write more than just an open letter to the bastards bringing most people down, but to flip a bird back to those in the past; I hope they got whatever was coming to them.

On occasion there are some wonderful people, those individuals need appreciation, too. On very rare occasion, I might try to articulate my sincere gratitude for “that lady in line at Subway” or “that nice guy in the break room at work”.

Otherwise I’m probably just going to show off my extensive grammar-bending skills, overwrite sentences, let out steam using a great too many curse words, and bear the occasional bit of my soul.

I know you’ll relate, enjoy, or completely hate me. I really don’t care what you permeate: just feel something!